


Lost

by Mackerooooons



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Erestor and Fingon and Maglor's wife are only mentioned, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Help, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnap Dads, Loss of Memory, Madness, Maybe - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, a character died of screen, almost, confused elflings, did I mention grief?, lots of characters died off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackerooooons/pseuds/Mackerooooons
Summary: Maedhros loses his memories, and is confused. Naturally, everything is horrible.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Trying Not to Remember](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149112) by [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard). 



> Dedicated to JazTheBard for being a genius. Also it's based (heavily) on a fic by them.
> 
> Warnings for death, referenced blood, PTSD(maybe), and referenced child death.

Maitimo woke slowly. Instantly he knew something wrong. The bed was harder than any he'd felt, other than the ground. Though, he was not camping as he'd thought he'd been, that much was clear.

The sheets were too heavy to be bedsheets, but too rough to be the blankets he'd brought with him.

With a further shock, he realised both that his eyes were closed, and that his right hand felt... odd. Numb was the closest feeling. Maybe it was asleep still. But there was no reason for his eyes to be closed. He hadn't been all that weary, neither was he wounded or sick. 

But maybe he actually was sick. There was something wrong with his Feä, something... wrong.

He opened his eyes and sat up. The room was made of stone, though not the white stuff used in Tírion; more a dull, ugly grey. The banners bore his father's sigil, though much simplified and undecorated - not very Noldorin. But still, his hand-

He stared. He.... didn't have a hand. Where? - Was it - What? 

This was insane. He blinked at the stump, willing his hand to appear. It didn't. He poked the scar tissue. It didn't hurt, but it felt absolutely wrong. Wrong in every sense. He flexed invisible fingers, and felt them move. But when he touched the air where they should be, he met no resistance.

Wrong wrong wrong.

Not even trying to process this yet, Maitimo inspected the room. Laurëlin was waxing, but still seemed duller than usual. Perhaps there was a mist. That suggested that he was near the sea, though why he did not know. 

There was a desk against the wall with a stumpy candle, and a messy pile of papers. Atop the papers was a toppled cup and a tattered brown and gold ribbon. His mind wandered to Finno. But that was not helping clarification. 

Standing, he picked his way over to the desk. For some reason, his right knee ached and grinded like all the cartilage had gone. His left shoulder did the same. It hurt, but enough to ignore. 

Maitimo refocused, and picked up the cup, sniffing at what was left of the contents. Strong, the strongest wine he'd ever smelled. He put down the cup in disgust.

Turning, he surveyed the rest of the room. It was small, more fit for a servant, and mostly taken up by an arsenal of ceremonial armour, arms, and equipment to keep them maintained. Whomever dwelt here was either an arms fanatic or just plain odd. Likely both. Even his father didn't have this many swords. The things just weren't practical. 

He opened the crude wardrobe and frowned. The ranment was plain as everything else, dull colours or blacks and greys, all worn almost through. Not pleasant in the slightest. He sighed and took out a dark teal tunic and mahogany surcoat, both the brightest things in the wardrobe.

To his suspicion, they were both easily operated with only one hand. Maybe whomever supplied the clothes knew of whatever incident had lost him his hand? 

What if he'd been unconscious for a long time? What if his family thought him lost? What could even have happened? But someone had housed him. Maitimo supposed he'd have to make himself presentable and thank his host. It didn't fit the son of a Prince to scorn any generosity. And if he was after answers, that was his business. 

He looked around for a mirror, before finally locating one on the wall near the door. It was turned around, facing the wall. He smacked his forehead (with his stumpy wrist, - not alright! Eugh!) in exasperation. Nothing was normal. Nothing! This must be a dream. He must have eaten something. Food poison, this was all. He clumsily turned the mirror around and started.

A spiderweb of cracks spread from the center, dotted with a bit of dried blood. What in Varda's Pools.... 

By leaning down far enough, he could properly see himself in a larger panel-

Maitimo reeled back in shock. This was not him. It couldn't be! His cheeks were sunken and eyes weary, like how he'd imagined Grandmother Míriel had looked. Worse, his entire face much of his neck was covered in huge scars; part of his eyebrow was gone, the tip of his left ear too, and a jagged line went clear across his cheek and into his lip. He sat down rigidly on the floor.

These were nothing like the little pale lines on workers' hands. These... He had no idea how.... 

An unbidden thought sprang up. Maybe he could start a new trend in Tírion! The absurdity of everything crashed down on a sudden, and laughter bubbled up in his chest. This was not the appropriate reaction to this absolute rubbish, but he couldn't fight it. So he laughed until he couldn't breathe and then laughed some more. 

He was still sitting clumsily on the floor laughing madly when the door opened. He glanced over, unable to do more, and just laughed more.

Twins stood by the door. Twins! Not the Ambarussar, for their hair was dark. But they look at him with unveiled fear in their eyes. 

Whoever they were, they likely needed help, and what kind of brother would he be if he didn't help them? They were young, likely only twenty, if that. This was his job. No manner of horrific oddness could change that. 

He forced down his laughter and smiled kindly at the boys. "Do you need something little ones?" 

This seemed to make them more afraid, if anything. One spoke up. "I- You said you'd make breakfast."

Maitimo did not remember promising anyone breakfast. He certainly did not remember these twins. Perhaps they were his new nephews? The child's accent was distinctly Feänarian, so they couldn't be cousins. How much time had be lost after the unknown accident?

He put off his latest rush of frustration and stood, grunting as a pain flared in this knee. He ignored that too, and smiled again at the twins. They inched back. "How do griddle cakes sound?"

The twins looked at each other, then nodded at him. 

He gestured for them to lead the way, and they did, whispering to each other. 

It was a strange tongue, but somehow he could understand it.

"He's acting weird."

"Oh is he now? I thought people usually sat on the floor laughing."

His brother smacked him lightly. "Not just that. He's being an absolute doormat! Not scary in the slightest."

Maitimo was rightfully confused by that, but didn't say anything. It was hard enough to hear them, and his knee was distracting him.

"Why do you think? You don't think this is our last day here?"

"Of course not. We're still valuable I'm sure. At least a little."

"You saw the star that night, and every night since. Maglor said what it was, were worthless as chips."

Who was Maglor? It didn't sound familiar, but there was something....

"Maybe he's trying to make our last day the best."

"See? Doormat! I mean, griddle cakes? Balrogs, this is rare. Do you think he'll put sugar in them like Nurse did?"

"Do we have sugar?"

Maitimo started again. Not have sugar?! The very poorest of the very lowest class had sugar. What even was this place?! 

His thoughts were interrupted when he stepped oddly and his knee cap shot to the outside of his leg. He yelled and toppled over in the middle of the hall, clutching his knee wildly.

His surroundings blurred, pain shooting repeatedly up and down his leg. He was unaware of the approaching footsteps until a face swam into view, vaguely unimpressed. 

"Maedhros," it said, in that same strange language. "What are you doing."

Maitimo could only grunt in confusion and pain. The blurry face receded, and his leg was yanked out of his grip. He shouted, and felt his knee cap slide back into place. 

The pain receded slowly Maitimo blinked at his knee. "Oow," he breathed. "What was that?!"

Looking up, he realised with a start that that was Makalaurë. He looked nothing like himself, gaunt, weary, grief etched into his features like stone. He carried himself as a lord, yet one who had the weight of the world in his shoulders, and was weary almost to death. 

Maitimo could only blink.

Makalaurë stared down at him in something akin to exhausted scorn. "Maedhros, I know not what you play at. You act as if you have never had a dislocation, when I know in fact that you have one nearly every day, and are fully self-sufficient in repairing yourself. Neither would you show such weakness, especially not before Elrond and Elros." He looked at the twins, hiding behind his legs- nay, cowering. How loud had he been?

At least he knew thier names, if nothing else. But maedhros? What did that mean? Was it an invented curse? Moryo did that all the time, having once made a phrase entirely about blooming daisies which still somehow sounded more obscene than the worst curses.

But based off the wording, that couldn't be it. But it must! If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought Kano was addressing him.

"Uhm," He started, eying the twins. He could assume that they were Makalaurë's sons, and their noses did look a little like Calawen's. Where Kano's wife was though, he didn't know. He may as well ask. 

"I am sorry, Nephews, for frightening you." Kano took a step back, almost tripping over his(?) children, who looked even more shocked than he did. "Uhm... Kano, where is Calawen?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones. 

The change came over Makalaurë like a tidal wave. Pain, sorrow and guilt flashed before being replaced by a burning fury. His back straitened and his eyes lit like silver coals. "Boys. Find Erestor. Begin your lessons." 

Elrond and Elros glanced at each other. "But," one started, "We have not eaten yet." 

Makalaurë wheeled on them. "Go! Find. Erestor." His voice was a dangerous thing, and now it demanded obedience beyond thought. Maitimo almost rose to find this Erestor himself. 

The twins went.

Makalaurë seized Maitimo by the collar and dragged him up from the floor, shoving him against the wall. 

"How dare you." Makalaurë practically spat in fury. Maitimo had never seen his brother so angry. 

"Kano, please, I don't know what is happening! I have never seen those children and I have never been here and I- I have no hand! My hand is gone!"

Kano laughed sharply, painfully. "Of course, you have one hand. How fitting of you remind me. Of course I can do naught but forgive you for your jab. I ask you again, what do you play at."

It wasn't a question, it was a demand. 

"I play nothing! This is not my idea of a game, Kano! What is happening?!" 

He wondered if he wanted to know. Makalaurë looked at him, into him. He released his collar, nearly dropping him. Maitimo caught himself on the wall. 

Kano studied him, leaving Maitimo feeling like an insect under observation.

"You speak truth. How much do you remember?"

Maitimo looked down. "I was riding to the outskirts Tírion to visit Ammë. We were just banished, Atar is building Formenos." He froze. "Truko was with me. Where is Turko?"

Kano turned his head. "Dead. He is dead. They all are."

Maitimo's head whirled. How? Why? When? All of them? Truly? But the only thing he could seem to say was "But Calawen?" 

Kano slumped. "She lives. But I am dead to her. I know in my heart that we shall not meet again until the breaking of the world, maybe not even then." 

They stood in silence for a time. Maitimo waited for his brother to speak, but this Makalaurë did not appear as loose-tongued as one one he knew. His left leg began to grow tired from supporting his weight. He leaned against the wall.

Dead? Who was all? Atar? The Ambarussar? Finno? He struggled to fit anything into words. "What happened?"

Kano seemed to misunderstand his question. "I do not know. I only knew you spoke truth because your eyes bear no madness. Today is the anniversary of the Nirnaeth, and this year shall be the hundredth since Doriath. Mayhap your Feä sought to spare you the pain by hiding it."

Kano turned from him. He continued, switching to the strange tongue, power lacing every word. "You are not 'Maitimo.' You are Maedhros, son of Feänor. You are known as Seregaur, the Blood Wolf. Naurmegil, Sword of Flame. Carog, the Red Demon. Oathposessed, Kinslayer."

With every word, truth slammed upon Mairimo with the searing weight of a firy boulder. He slid to the ground as memory after memory ripped into him. 

(Blackness, unlight; the dark, directing, flaming weight of the Oath; bloodied shores and burning ships; darkness and stone and chains and pain pain pain; battle after battle after battle until The Battle, and the missive with only a bloodied ribbon and 'The high king is dead' and so is he and he can't breathe; red blood on his sword, on his hand, on his clothes, in his hair, on his face, in his mouth; cold, he can't find them, he can't find them, they're children, he doesn't need more blood on his hands, does it matter? does it matter? does it matter? but three brothers are dead, he led them here and he led him there and Finno's in the trees but he's not but he needs to find them where are they; and they're going to attack the girl, the little girl, but they have to, they can no more stop than kill themselves but they can be killed and the men turn and maybe; and the girl jumps and the Silmaril is gone and the Men say 'peace in death' but there is none, there can't be, not for them; and they're the only ones left and Maglor found the twins but they're not those twins but they're of use and there's blood on them and the twins and they're scared and he can't get clean never clean and Finno's under the water but he's not and they need to leave before they're all killed or they could stay but the need to leave; and the twins are scared of him and they see the blood on him and the madness in his eyes and he knows his madness he sees it and he strikes the mirror and it doesn't break and he turns it around but he knows his madness and Finno's at the desk but he isn't.)

Maedhros opens his eyes.

His hand is shaking. Does it ever stop shaking? He doesn't think it does. 

Maglor is kneeling beside him. Maglor is crying. He does that a lot. Maedhros has not cried in a long time.

Maglor is also speaking.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I can't do it alone, selfish, I'm sorry I'm sorry." 

Maedhros doesn't care. 

It's not that he hates what Maglor's done, what he's helped him remember. He'd probably remember it at some point, and he deserves it anyway. But he just doesn't care.

He makes to stand.

Maglor grabs his arm and lays his head on Maedhros' shoulder, still crying and mumbling his litany of apologies. 

Maedhros shoves him off and stumbles to his feet. Maglor remains on the floor, not meeting his eyes.

Guilt stabs his heart, but it's nothing new. 

Turning, he staggers down the hallway, weighed down anew by the remorse, the grief, the Oath. Every step not towards the Silmaril is a knife, every heartbeat not holding it is a wound.

But he cannot pursue a star, so he doesn't. 

He recognises the dislocation before it happens, and when it does, he kicks his leg just right and the bone snaps back to where it should be. 

He lurches into his chambers, closing the door not a bit gently. 

His mirror is staring back at him. 

Maedhros looks at his grotesque scars. He looks at his sunken cheeks, his shadowed eyes. His wild eyes, lit only by desperation, by guilt, by malice, grief, remorse, hate, pain, dark fire from the Oath. 

Eyes lit by madness.

He strikes at those eyes. He strikes again and again and again until there is glass under his skin.

Finno's in the mirror, but he isn't.

**Author's Note:**

> What have I done?
> 
> The description of the dislocation comes from my sister who has done that. I haven't.
> 
> Also I only kind of edited this, so if you see anything, please point it out. Thanks for reading!


End file.
